


A Little Christmas Wish

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [620]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen, sesa2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: For the Thundernerds Sesa 2019, pinch-hitting on the prompts: 1. The boys attempt to sneak away as Grandma Tracy is baking Christmas cookies. 2. A tired Scott quietly enjoying a cup of coffee alone in the early hours of the morning, in front of a lit up Christmas tree on the island, waiting for the next rescue mission
Series: prompt ficlets [620]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/53353
Kudos: 7





	A Little Christmas Wish

Scott doesn’t know who set up the Christmas tree, but here it is, twinkling lights reflected in the midnight-dark windows. Scott lifts the tumbler of heavy cut glass, a simple twist of the cup balanced on the heel of his palm so he could look through the facets to watch lights flicker and flash red and green and white and back to red again.

The scotch was starting to sit heavy in his belly; despite the miserly sip of alcohol and the bountiful heap of exhaustion, he couldn’t bring himself to stagger up to a dark, cold bed. If this week was any indication, he’d be up in three hours anyway, prepping for yet another launch.

Scott turns away from the stairs and descends to the kitchen instead. The Christmas fairy has been down here too, tinsel pinned around the big french doors and along one side of the long counter that jutted out into the room. Here the Christmas cheer ended, the box of ornaments open on a chair, a few bells scattered next to it.

It was a familiar scene; all of them knew what it looked like when the alarms sounded, demanding they leave their normal life to answer the newest call for help. Scott bends stiffly to pick up a delicate glass snowflake, sets it carefully on the counter before getting down his mug.

The coffee pot is still warm, half full of half stale liquid consciousness. Scott lets it warm back up before pouring it out until it almost slops over the cup’s rim. As he splashes a little milk in lieu of more scotch, the refrigerator lights make the star he’d left on the counter twinkle and shine.

Scott fetches a teaspoon from the drawer of cutlery and some tape from the drawer of stuff beneath it. Sipping his coffee, he scans the room, figuring out wherever the mysterious Christmas-ing person had gotten up to.

The mug cools to tepid before Scott finishes his coffee and the decorating. At the bottom of the box are their battered old stockings, each with their name clumsily stitched in bold thread. Gordon’s had a patch on the toe that was coming loose; even before he could walk, Gordon always wanted to peek at his presents.

Scott dumps his dregs in the sink, leaves his mug against the half a dozen others already waiting to be washed, and gathers the stockings in his arms. Gordon’s gets hung against the fish tank, Virgil’s hooked off the edge of the frame of the picture of the Saturn rocket. Alan and John’s proved more challenging. In the end, he settles for hooking each over two of the holoprojector cameras.

Scott rubs his thumb over his name, stitched in embroidery floss by an unsteady hand decades before, as he walks towards his launch. He can’t put it on his lamp, but it fits neatly over the next lamp along.

He gets a moment to admire it before the comms chime. “Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird One. We have a situation.”

Scott takes a second to straighten his stocking before tapping his own comm. “On my way.”


End file.
